


Preserve the Sexy

by LaurelSilver



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Distaster homies, Dove + Grenade, Gen, Marijuana, Strippers & Strip Clubs, breaking in - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "I think we're all a little ambidextrous for that Danny."Charlie and Dylan break into a strip club. That was a mistake.
Relationships: n/a
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Preserve the Sexy

**Author's Note:**

> NAMES ARE USEFUL:  
> Charlie (Charlie Scene) AKA Chucky/Jordon/Dumbass  
> Dylan (Funny Man) AKA Bus Print  
> Matty (Da Kurlzz) AKA the bouncer  
> Johnny (Johnny 3 Tears) AKA the large man/George  
> (Mentioned only) Aron (Deuce)  
> Danny (Danny) AKA Charlie's new friend/Golden Beast/Goldie  
> Jorel (J-Dog) AKA the second dancer/Jay  
> (Mentioned only) Jeff Philips (Shady Jeff)
> 
> Quick warnings for discussion of drugs, black market weed and organised crime.

Dylan knew Charlie had a terrible idea the millisecond he’d looked at him. Charlie just had that look about him this evening. The uncontainable smile, the mischievous glint in his eye, the extra pep in his step. This terrible scheming was what had cemented Dylan’s love and loyalty to his long-time friend.

“Tell me everything,” Dylan said, and passed Charlie the narrow rollie he’d been nursing. It was half-gone, but still enough to share.

“I had a delivery over at Grenade today,” Charlie said.

“Grenade?” Dylan said, “You mean, Grenade the **strip club**?”

Charlie nodded and grinned.

“Did you get to go in? Were the girls there? Did you see em?”

“No, just the bouncer. Asshole wouldn’t even let me in to pee. He’s just like _Can’t let losers in in the day_ and shuts the fucking door on me!” Charlie growls the bouncer’s line, and thus Dylan pictures a huge, buff, bearded bald man towering over Charlie as Charlie boldly shoots his shot.

“He called you a loser?” Dylan said.

“No, I just felt like one,” Charlie presses a hand to his chest for a serious second, wounded by his own self-esteem. “Anyway, I had ten minutes so I did a little scouting. Round the back, they’ve got a back door.”

“You’re sure it’s at the back? It’s not at the side?”

“No, the back door is definitely at the back. **And** it’s a fire exit, so it **shouldn’t** open for the outside, so it **probably** won’t be guarded.”

Dylan blinked at him. “But we can’t open it from the outside.”

Charlie’s grin split wider. “It’s an Aztec door.”

“Okay?”

“I worked for them, remember?”

Dylan vaguely remembered Charlie talking about Aztec, but Charlie could pull any company name out of his ass and Dylan’s brain would fill in a memory of Charlie working for them. Charlie seemed to have a new job every other week. Charlie called it hustling. Dylan called it a headache.

“They’re connected by a magnet on the **outside** of the door,” Charlie continued, “We disconnect the magnet, we can get in.”

“How the fuck do we do that?” Dylan said, “Just pull really hard? Fire doors don’t have handles!”

Charlie held up a metal ruler. “Just trust me, my sexy friend.”

Dylan followed Charlie down the dark back alleys. Charlie had decreed that if they went directly to the building and the around the back, then the bouncer would spot them. “He had those kind of eyes. Those kind of eagle eyes. I swear he saw my piece. Or maybe he was looking at my dick, I dunno. But he had eyes.”

All these walls looked the same to Dylan. The same graffiti, the same dumpster, the same broken window. He wasn’t convinced Charlie knew where he was going. He kept wanting to peel off and out into the lit main road, just to prove to himself they weren’t stuck in a loop of trash and concrete and that damn spray-painted bird.

Charlie stopped, and Dylan walked directly into the back of him. “It’s here.”

Dylan looked around. The same green cross and bird was graffitied on the wall. The same dumpster sat closed with beer bottles littered around it. The broken window had been boarded over here, and the words DEAD BITE WOZ HERE had been scrawled in red spray paint. Dylan thought DEAD BITE was the dorkiest edgelord nickname he’d heard in a while, but at least it had helped them find the strip club.

Charlie had to stand up on his tiptoes to reach the top of the fire door. A little box sat at the top of the door with a red light glowing above. Charlie pressed his ruler under the box and slid it into the doorframe. He wriggled it, pushing it along the underside of the box slowly, precisely.

The red light went out. The box beeped. A green light appeared and the door clicked.

Charlie scrabbled for the edge of the door. His nails found the edge and pulled, and the door pulled with him.

Charlie looked at Dylan and waggled his eyebrows. Dylan gave him an impressed nod.

Inside smelt of marijuana, pussy and rock n’ roll. Exactly how Charlie had imagined the back of strip clubs to smell. The light was dim and the bass line throbbed around them as they picked their way through the back corridor.

They came to a large changing room, made up of a series of lockers against one wall, a mirror and desk against the other, and a pair of large sofas back-to-back in the middle. Charlie dove in and pulled one of the lockers open.

Inside was a large Ghøstkid hoodie, a muscle shirt with a design of a skull and butterfly on the front, a pair of jeans and a pair of trainers. A picture of two girls, one teenaged and the other a toddler, was taped to the inside of the door. A wallet and a cell phone, both black and covered in butterflies, sat in the bottom of the locker. Charlie opened the wallet, took out a ten dollar note, pocketed it and replaced the wallet.

“Must be the bouncer’s,” Charlie remarked.

Dylan held up the hoodie. It was as long as him but almost twice as wide, and Dylan’s mental image of the bouncer swelled and rippled with muscle.

“They let the bouncer change in the same room as the dancers?” Dylan said.

Charlie blinked a few times. “Time to start training to be a bouncer.”

Dylan folded the hoodie as best he could and replaced it in the locker. The phone pinged a couple of times, and the noise muffled as Charlie shut the locker door. Dylan opened the next one.

A pair of polished boots sat in the bottom, with a pair of skinny jeans and a black-camo rain jacket hung haphazardly on the hooks in the back of the locker. A couple of t-shirts were slung in the back corner, and two cans of deodorant stood on guard in front as if they could hold back the small of B.O. Dylan touched the jacket, and the name DECKER sat stitched to its lapel. Dylan wondered if that was a nickname. What a nickname. Look out its Decker, she’ll fucking deck ya!

“Must be one of the dancers,” Dylan said.

“You reckon?” Charlie sounded disappointed.

“It’s not like they’re gonna walk around in their lil’ dancing outfits all the time, is it?”

“I guess not. She’s gonna look a total lesbian, though.”

Dylan crossed his arms over his bowling-alley print hoodie and shifted in his boots with green laces, his jeans of course cuffed to show a slither of marijuana print socks. “Now, I don’t like this homophobia you’re spouting here, homie.”

“Hey! No, man, I love lesbians! I’m just surprised!”

“By what? Lesbians dancing?”

“No, just…” Charlie stared into the locker, “I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t think lesbians would want men watching them.”

“Lesbians go to strip clubs, too.”

“I’ve never seen ‘em!”

“That’s ‘cause you’re staring at the dancers!”

“Yeah?! That’s the point!”

Dylan glared down at Charlie until his temper broke and he giggled. Charlie giggled too and shut the locker door. He opened the next locker to a pair of jeans and a rose-patterned button down hung on hangers over the hooks. Another picture of two children, a teenage girl and a toddler boy together with a chunky dog, was taped to the inside, and a drawing pad sat open in the bottom to practices of drawing the boy’s face.

Charlie smiled and closed the locker. He opened the next locker to a backpack in the shape of an alien head. He snorted.

“I think you’ll like this one, man,” Charlie said.

Dylan peered in. A water bottle sat in the side pocket of the backpack, and a French flag hung from the zipper. Dylan reached for the flag.

Something clattered outside and someone swore. Charlie and Dylan both flinched. Dylan snaked his hand out and Charlie shut the door as softly as he could.

The disaster homies crept around to the mirrored wall. Just as they pressed their backs to the glass, a large man stepped through the door. He pressed past the pair without noticing them as he made a beeline for the lockers. He opened the first one and took out the phone. He glanced across at the picture of the girls, taped high to meet his eye level. Dylan sensed rather than saw the man smile a small smile at the picture before returning to the phone.

Charlie tapped Dylan on the arm and snuck out the door. Dylan gave the man one last glance before he followed. The man was big, back taught and stocky under his white shirt, navy blue braces [US: suspenders] holding up his trousers tight over his broad shoulders. He was bald, and a dark tattoo sat over his skull, Dylan barely having time to identify a rose before he was following Charlie deeper into the building.

“Was that the bouncer?” Dylan asked.

“No, it was a different guy,” Charlie said.

“Who’s there?” the man called, and Dylan and Charlie froze.

“Fuck,” Charlie whispered. The locker door slammed behind them.

“Aron, I swear to fuck if that’s you!”

“Run!”

But there wasn’t anywhere to run. Except forwards. Through a door. Behind which a bass line throbbed. And lights flickered. And women giggled and whooped.

The bass and lights and whoops swallowed them whole. Charlie stumbled, blinded, and fell straight into a body.

Charlie and his new friend hit the floor. Charlie’s eyes adjusted to a crop of short, fluffy blond hair. His hand ran over the person’s back, their skin bare. Glitter and dollar notes littered the floor.

Charlie’s stomach dropped. He was on the fucking stage.

The music continued. Charlie looked up into the crowd. A sea of women looked back, some confused, some curious, some too drunk to give a fuck.

Charlie looked down at his new friend. The dancer pushed him away and scrabbled out of his grip. They weren’t tall, with a flat chest and a clean six-pack. An intricate tattoo was inked into their skin, with roses and skulls and a sword that dipped under their belt line and reappeared out the leg of the denim short shorts to stop almost mid-thigh. A large label reading GOLDEN BEAST was stuck to the opposite thigh.

Charlie stared at the dancer. The dancer stared back with wide eyes. This wasn’t a woman. This was a whole-ass man.

Charlie looked at Dylan. Dylan looked at Charlie. They had fucked up.

Charlie scooped up a handful of glitter and poured it over the dancer’s front. The dancer sat, frozen in alarm, as the microplastics rolled down his front, dipping into the little valleys between his oiled-up muscles. A couple of women, drunk and mid mid-life-crisis, cheered.

A hand brushed against Dylan’s side. The large man was next to Dylan but barely aware Dylan was there, staring onto the stage at Charlie and Golden Beast with a deep grimace pulling on his jaw.

Charlie continued shovelling glitter onto Golden Beast. Golden Beast half-heartedly batted him away with a laugh, and the women around them relaxed into giggles. A second dancer, Dylan supposed, jumped onto the stage and threw a handful of glitter straight at Charlie. The second dancer was better covered, in tight black jeans and a white muscle shirt, black hair greased down flat.

Dylan gave the large man another look over. Tattoos crept over almost every inch of uncovered skin, mostly butterflies flying over his neck and hands. Even his bolo tie boasted a butterfly clasp. A label clung to his breast, with JOHNNY 3 written in clear blue capitals.

Dylan was surprised. If the labels signified performers, this guy must give the most terrifying lap dances. 

A light blinked past Johnny 3, and it attracted Dylan’s attention like a moth to a lamp. Dylan snuck behind the man and ran to the shiny blinky thing.

The shiny blinky thing was the jukebox, demanding attention before the last song on the playlist finished. More tech piled either side of it; fog machines, disco lights, amps, speakers, glitter guns and microphones.

A light bulb glistened in Dylan’s head. He grabbed a microphone and flicked it on. A little red light glowed from the side and Dylan held it up to his mouth.

“Good evening ladies,” he said in guaranteed-to-get-him-laid baritone, “How y’all doin’ tonight?”

The women whooped and cheered as Dylan flipped through the jukebox. He felt breath on his neck.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dylan continued, “We’re so sorry about the interruption. My boy Charlie got a little over-excited. Look at him; he ain’t even dressed! Or undressed, am I right ladies?”

The women cheered and someone whistled.

“The fuck are you doing?” Johnny 3 hissed.

“I’m saving this,” Dylan hissed back, “So back the fuck up.”

Johnny 3 didn’t move. Dylan selected a song and the jukebox whirred. Dylan pushed past Johnny 3 and onto the edge of the stage.

“Here he is, ladies,” Dylan said into the microphone, “West Coast’s very own; Charlie Scene!”

The opening notes of “Oh Pretty Woman” played from the speakers and Charlie’s face lit up with understanding. Dylan handed the microphone and singular brain cell to Charlie.

Charlie turned on his heel and pressed a glitter-coated hand to his chest as he began; “Pretty woman, walkin’ down the street…”

The women cheered and a hen party gaggle sang along. Charlie strolled to the edge of the stage and rumbled on through the lyrics.

Golden Beast got up took the opposite side of the stage, posing with a beaming smile. He lip-synced along with Charlie, reaching out for the women who reached back like he was genuinely singing just for them.

The second dancer escaped and dipped backstage. He grabbed Dylan by the arm and dragged him out the door, Johnny 3 following close.

The door closed and muffled the music. The second dancer turned on Dylan. He was short, by Dylan’s standards anyway, with a scruffy-stylish 5 ‘o clock shadow. His label was longways on his sculpted arm, the name J – D O G written down it in sharpie. The ‘O’ had had cat ears and whiskers sketched on in biro. Why J- _Dog_ would have a _cat_ on his label, Dylan wasn’t sure, but J-Dog seemed pissed off so now wasn’t the time to ask.

“Who the fuck is that?” J-Dog pointed back to the stage.

“My boy Charlie,” Dylan said.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Dylan.”

J-Dog looked at Johnny 3 and gestured to Dylan. Johnny 3 just shrugged.

“Okay,” J-Dog said, “Why are you here?”

“Uh… There’s been a mix-up. We were meant to be at Grenade club.”

“This is Grenade club.”

“What?”

Johnny 3 pulled a leaflet from a box by the door and handed it to Dylan. Dylan looked it over.

Golden Beast sat on the edge of the stage, dressed in jeans and an open blazer, leant to the side to let his uncovered abs and chest hold the centre of the image. One hand held him up at this angle, the other holding up a lit blunt, a thin cloud of haze floating from his parted lips as he stared lazily into the camera with a smirk. His hair was fluffed up at the front, total bed-head, pale pink in this picture. The words “Grenade Club” sat in green in the top right, the only space free of the Golden Beast, with the tagline underneath. The tagline “Strip club for ladies and gays.”

Realisation dropped like a stone. Nowhere had Dylan seen Grenade club being advertised, only through word-of-mouth. Even then, it was just the ingenious gimmick of ‘Strip club with a local weed counter’. Dylan had never thought to ask if it was a club of woman dancers, he just took that for granted.

“I think we’ve made a mistake,” Dylan said.

“Do you?” J-Dog said.

“How did you even get in here?” Johnny 3 said.

“Back door,” Dylan said, and J-Dog’s snort didn’t go unnoticed, “It opens from the outside.”

“There ain’t a handle on it, it’s a fire door.”

Dylan shrugged. “My boy Charlie used to work for Aztec. Apparently there’s a design flaw.”

“Great. Now we have to buy a new door. On top of everything else.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” J-Dog said, “Stop worrying about it.”

A second voice drifted through the door. Dylan stared in wonder.

“That’s Danny,” J-Dog said, “He sings too, and plays guitar. Johnny sings sometimes, but only if the patrons are drunk enough to not notice he can’t fucking sing.”

“Fuck you,” Johnny says.

“I play guitar, do most of the playlist-making and DJ shit, but I mostly man the bar, we do drinks and sell weed. Even rent some hookahs, for about the price you can buy one for. It’s a tourist gimmick, really.”

“Why are you telling him this?”

J-Dog shrugged and looked up at Dylan. “I like this guy. He’s a fast thinker.”

“Doesn’t mean he wants to know our business model!”

“It sounds cool!” Dylan said, “Like, who thinks of this shit? Like ‘yeah, me and the homies gonna open the strip club!’ What the fuck?”

“It started as a front, really,” J-Dog said, “We grew weed and sold it on the black market but we needed somewhere to keep the stash, somewhere to launder the money, and a way to keep cops from sniffing around us for too long. We got drunk one night, Danny had too much Hennessey, and he got on a table and started dancing without a shirt on. There was a bunch of women there celebrating a birthday, 35 I think, who thought he was a stripper and they stuffed a bunch of money in his waistband. One thought lead to another, and here we are.”

Johnny stared at J-Dog like he was the biggest moron Johnny had ever met.

“Oh shit!” Dylan said, “It’s perfect! You keep the weed for the weed bar, the weed money cycles through the system as tips, and the cops don’t wanna hang around drunk women and naked men! That’s fucking ingenious!”

“Ain’t it?!” J-Dog said.

Johnny pressed two fingers to each temple and counted to ten.

“And the black market buyers don’t stick around either,” J-Dog said, “They come to the back window, hand us the cash, take the weed, and they fuck off. And even if they short us or don’t turn up or whatever, it’s cool. We still do make some money here too.”

“And they can’t mug you, you’re behind a door!” Dylan said.

“Exactly! They gotta give us the money first, or we don’t hand out the weed! And they can’t get in to force it out of us!”

“Jorel, would you shut the fuck up?” Johnny said.

“What?”

“We don’t know who the fuck this guy is. He could be a rival. He could be a cop. He could be anybody.”

“An undercover would never wear a hoodie that obnoxious.”

Dylan looked down at his hoodie. It was a good hoodie. He liked the patterns on it.

“You can pat me down,” Dylan said, and he put his arms out, “I got nothing on me, man. I’m just a dumbass who thought he was gonna see some titty tonight.”

“A dumbass who managed to break in through a locked door, unnoticed?”

“I told you, Charlie used to work for Aztec. He works fucking everywhere, man, I can’t keep track of it.”

“I know the type,” Johnny side-eyed Jorel.

“I don’t get your problem here,” Jorel said.

“My problem is that you just told some stranger practically everything!”

“He seems chill to me!”

“Yes Jay, but you’re a gulliable fucking idiot!”

Jorel opened his mouth to protest, but shut it and nodded.

“Who the fuck are you?” Johnny turned on Dylan.

“I’m Dylan,” Dylan said again.

“Who do you work for?”

“Foodie Friends Catering. I answer the phone, take the orders, hang up before the old cooks start telling me about their grandkids.”

“What?”

“He’s a desk boy,” Jorel said, “He takes food orders. For people we order food from.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Johnny growled. He was edging towards Dylan and Dylan was backing away.

Dylan’s shoulders hit the wall. “I don’t work for anyone else! All I do is answer the phone! I ain’t in a mob, I swear, man!”

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Jorel said.

“Shut up!” Johnny snapped.

“What, you think some gangster sent two men to infiltrate us? One in the most obnoxious, noticeable outfits I’ve ever fucking seen?!”

Dylan fingered the edge of his hoodie as Jorel talked. He really likes this hoodie, it doesn’t deserve these insults.

“And what?” Jorel continued, “The other’s a great singer, just in case he goes stumbling onto the stage mid-performance?”

Johnny was almost nose-to-nose with Dylan. His breath smelt of weed and bubblegum.

“Look. I saw that guy fall onto the stage. He looked at Danny like a deer in a fucking shopping mall. He wasn’t scared he was caught, he was confused. These guys ain’t undercovers. I believe him; I think he was expecting to sneak in and watch some dancing.”

Dylan nodded. Johnny’s stare was drilling into his face, digging for any sign that Jorel hadn’t hit the nail on the head.

The song on the other side of the door ended. The women cheered. Charlie gave a curt thank you.

“I only put a couple of songs in,” Dylan said, “Someone needs to put more on.”

“Fine,” Johnny said, “But you’re staying where I know where you are, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Johnny shoved Dylan in the direction of the door. Dylan stumbled a little but dove through and headed straight to the jukebox.

Dylan typed fast, and the opening guitar of Elvis’ “I Only Wanna Be With You” rang out. Charlie cheered.

Dylan sighed. He turned, chin up ready to look Johnny in the face but he wasn’t there, only Jorel at his side looking over the songs, muttering about “fucking country singers.” Johnny was on the stage, cowboy hat retrieved from fuck knows where, and he was posing and gyrating to the music like it was the most natural behaviour in the world. The women in front of him cheered and crowed something about saving horses.

Jorel tapped Dylan on the side. “How’s the list looking?”

Dylan looked over the jukebox screen and nodded his approval. Elvis, Johnny Cash, even a little Dolly Parton. All songs Charlie could sing and vibe with. All songs a crowd of drunk women could sing and vibe with.

“Come on,” Jorel pulled on Dylan’s arm and lead him away from the jukebox. They had to cross over a corner of the stage, and Dylan passed close to Golden Beast as he danced and reached into the audience. He smelt of sweat and sugar, and body oil was melting into sweat on his shoulders until he shone in the lights. Dylan assumed this was the one Jorel called Danny.

They passed the audience, mostly women with a single gay couple in matching “I LESS THAN THREE MY NERD BOYFREND” shirts complete with typo. A group near the back had a hookah and a bottle of champagne, the woman in the middle wearing a sash reading “DTF – DIVORCED THANK FUCK”. A queue had grown from the bar.

“’Scuse me, ladies,” Jorel said, and the women parted like a pink sea. Jorel jumped straight over the bar and beckoned for Dylan to follow.

Dylan followed, much less elegant than the sculpted Jorel. The bar didn’t have the beer taps of the pubs and holes Dylan usually went to to watch Charlie perform. The back wall was stacked with liquors of various colours. Bottles of wine lay in a rack underneath, unnoticeable until you approached the bar, and a door-less cabinet of glasses sat to the right. Fridges of juice and bottles of store-brand pop sat under the bar, with beers and ciders relegated to the fridges on the right, one with a Lesbian Rights sticker on the front. A freezer sat in the corner with more un-chilled drinks stacked either side of it.

Jorel took an order for two Frozen Pink Panties, an Ace, two Cosmopolitans and a Kalimotxo. He gave the ordering woman a big smile and charged her eighty three dollars.

“Know your way around cocktails?” Jorel asked Dylan. He had to shout to be heard.

Dylan gave a non-committal noise and hand wiggle.

“How about weed?”

Dylan nodded. Weed, he was somewhat of a connoisseur of.

Jorel gave Dylan a knowing look. He ushered Dylan in tight to the left. A second queue had formed here, the woman at the front wearing a hen party bandana and the most bored expression Dylan had ever seen.

Behind the bar, black tubs sat in little rows at Dylan’s height, labels white with bold logos. Most of them Dylan recognised at a glance, some took two glances for his memory of the haze to pop up. Bongs were lower down, easy to reach, with pipes dotted between and a hookah tucked into the corner. Grinders were on a shelf in between, three with small tubs sat next to them. Generic plastic lighters sat in a plastic box on the bar by the till and scales, with rolling papers and filters on the opposite side. On the bar, facing out to the women, was a small blackboard.

Dylan turned the blackboard to him and read the day’s specials. The prices were almost three times what he would normally pay, but he supposed this wasn’t his normal dealer. His eyes were drawn to the name in the bottom; “Dove + Grenade” a strain Dylan loved but his dealer struggled to get hold of. He supposed it was fitting in a club called Grenade. The name was more faded than the rest, the rest having been changed recently. Dylan needed to find out their supplier. Jorel would probably tell him, Jorel seemed friendly like that.

Dylan leant on the bar, mirroring the bored woman’s slumped pose. “Hey there.”

The woman sighed, and her lip piercing seemed to vibrate. “I like your hoodie.”

“Thanks. You need a pick-me-up?”

“Yeah.”

“Pipe? Bong? Spliff?”

“We’ve got a bong.”

Dylan nodded. He picked through the tubs until he settled on Jack Herer. Hardly an underground strain, but sometimes well-known things have earnt that title. The woman handed him a small tub, which Dylan had to blink at a few times before he recognised it as one of the tubs the club used with the grinders.

Dylan weighed the bud and ground it. “Need fresh water?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t think they’ll care, they’re fucking wasted.”

“Do you smoke?”

The woman blinked at him. “Yeah, why?”

Dylan grabbed a filter and a generous pinch of the ground weed. He rolled it up, quick and professional, and Jorel put a grinder tub of water next to Dylan before he could lick it. Wetting the paper with his fingers was a new skill, but Dylan made it work. He tapped the filter against the bar and wrapped the top.

“On the house,” he said to the woman, “For the wait.”

The woman’s face glowed up in a grin, and she lit it up as Dylan rang her Jack Herer up.

The shift was another four hours. After an hour, Jorel and Johnny swapped places. Jorel took up the guitar and sat Charlie on a chair backstage where he was out of the way but could still be seen at a glance. The mood shifted from warbling country to an upbeat classic rock. Jorel made it through two songs before an itchy-fingered (itchy-tongued?) Charlie was up and leading the singing.

Johnny wasn’t as quick as Jorel for churning out drinks, but he was good at distracting the patrons with jokes and short anecdotes. He had three dogs, he rode a motorbike, and his favourite book was Paradise Lost. Only once did Johnny disappear, and he returned with an envelope he tucked under the till and slipped in a couple of extra notes every time he opened the drawer. As the queue shrivelled and died, Johnny rolled a tidy joint of Dove + Grenade and shared it with Dylan.

At three am, Danny gave a forlorn goodbye and the lights turned on. Most of the women groaned in disappointment. Johnny stepped out of the bar, using a nifty piece on a hinge designed for such a purpose, and started herding the women out. He grabbed the rented hookah before it got dropped.

Dylan had switched to joints only in the final half-hour, and had sold some full tubs of Jack Herer and Strawberry Cough under Johnny’s blessing. Several of the women gave him a wave as they left, joints perched between their fingers. Dylan waved back, and his face was hurting from smiling so much.

Charlie sat on the stage with Jorel. A couple of drunk women were swooning over the pair, petting Jorel’s arms and pinching Charlie’s cheeks. Charlie batted them away and leant back until he was half-hidden behind Jorel like a shy child. The women cooed, and Jorel ushered them on out with a smile.

Johnny put the hookah on the bar and started collecting neglected glasses and ash trays. In the light the bar was somehow dingier, floor sticky with alcohol and bong water, tables littered with lighters, chairs littered with burn scars from dropped joints. The walls and ceiling were mismatched shades of black, the stage was more patch than floor, and the lights’ wiring was exposed. None of the furniture matched and most of the tables had a mismatched leg.

Danny stretched and moaned. Both Dylan and Charlie turned their faces away, a light flush clinging to Charlie’s cheeks.

“That went, uh,” Danny said, “That went fine, actually.”

The door closed. Then opened and closed again.

“Okay, what the fuck was going on in here on this night?!” a voice demanded. The voice growled and rasped each word, and Dylan’s panic-meter hit overdrive.

“Is that the bouncer?” Dylan said, more to Charlie than anyone else.

The performers grunted affirmative and Charlie nodded. A shadow crossed the wall, and Dylan’s mental image of rippling muscles and a snarling expression of disgust flashed in his head like a warning.

A man stepped into the room. He was a decent height, not as small as Danny but not as tall as Dylan or Johnny. Definitely not as big as Johnny. He wore the typical bouncer regalia; white button down with short sleeves, black trousers, black protective vest. He wore boots and had his hands curled into the shoulder straps of the vest, which would make him look militant if not for the fact he was also wearing a grey beanie with a single loop of black escaping under the brim onto his forehead.

“This is the bouncer?” Dylan said.

“Yeah,” the bouncer said.

Dylan turned on Charlie. “Dude, you were scared of this guy?”

“I never said I was **scared**!” Charlie protested.

“He was scared,” the bouncer said.

“Was not!”

“Was too.”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

“Children, please!” Danny put his hands up. In the light, face tattoos sat in Danny’s skin, small and dark. “Yes, this is our bouncer, Matty. How the fuck did you two get past him?”

“They came in through the back door,” Jorel said, “Apparently you can open it from the outside.”

“The magnet,” Charlie said, and he pulled the metal ruler out of his pocket, “If you can disrupt it, you can open the door.”

“It’s ten dollars to get in,” Matty said.

“I ain’t got ten dollars,” Charlie said.

“I do got ten dollars,” Dylan said, “But crime’s more fun.”

Jorel laughed.

“Okay, but what now?” Danny said, “We just made these guys pull a shift, no promise of pay and no insurance. Y’all know that’s illegal, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the only illegal thing happening here,” Jorel said, dryer than a document.

“Lemme stop you right fucking there,” Matty cut in.

“Too late,” Johnny said, “Jorel told Bus Print here everything.”

“He did **what**?!”

“What’s going on?” Charlie said.

“The place is a front for black market weed,” Dylan said, “The weed bar’s an excuse to be storing large amounts of weed, the money gets laundered straight away, cops don’t wanna stick around when there’s drunk women and naked men about.”

“That’s fucking brilliant!”

A light bulb flicked on in Dylan’s head. That had happened several times over the night and it was starting to give Dylan a headache. “Y’all grow Dove + Grenade.”

Jorel grinned. “It’s my baby.”

“Holy shit!” Charlie bowled onto Jorel and enveloped him in a hug. Five seconds later Dylan was over the bar and on top of the pair, joining Charlie in hollering praise for Jorel’s weed strain.

Matty looked up at Johnny with horror in his eyes. “We’re never getting rid of these two, are we?”

Johnny gave a forlorn shake of the head.

By now, Danny had retrieved a pair of joggers and a loose hoodie from back stage and covered up. He looked over the pile on the stage with an amused smile. A bundle of crumpled, glitter-seasoned notes sat in his hand.

“What now?” he asked again, “We need to figure out how to pay these guys.”

“Actually, Bus Prints made some good sales,” Johnny said, “He talked a few of the women into trying some pricier strains in a spliff or a pin, and most of them then bought more to share. Sold a lot as we were closing so they could take some home.”

“Yeah, and the women seemed to like Chucky here,” Danny said, “He’s a good singer.”

“Charlie,” Charlie called. He was still clinging to Jorel, “I’m called Charlie. Well, no, I’m called Jordon, but only my wife calls me that.”

“No, your wife calls you Dumbass,” Dylan said.

“Yeah, she does.”

Danny counted the notes in his hand, shook his head and passed them to Matty. “Count those, I’ve gotta be miscounting.”

Matty rolled his eyes and grumbled something about “doing fucking everything around here” but dutifully thumbed through the notes. His eyes widened a couple of times. “No, I think you counted right,” he said aloud, “We’ve broke a thou’ on tips alone.”

“What?” Jorel said.

“There’s a thousand dollars here,” Matty shook the notes at him, “Maybe nearly fifteen hundred if we do a second sweep and count.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s another thousand in the weed till,” Johnny said, “And that’s without the money from the back door.”

“Fuck,” Jorel said, “Do you two want jobs?”

“Yes,” Charlie said. Dylan gave a non-committal noise and wiggly hand gesture.

“You cannot be serious,” Matty said, “We don’t know these assholes!”

“I’m Dylan,” Dylan said.

“That’s nice. Why the fuck are you here?”

“We thought we were gonna see some titty.”

“’Titty’? How old are you?”

Neither Charlie or Dylan wanted to answer that question. Employed fathers breaking into a strip club like a pair of teenagers with rejected fake I.D.s. Now that they think of it, that’s pretty embarrassing.

“Also, y’all are aware this is a **male** strip club, right?”

“We are now,” Charlie said.

“Look,” Danny cut in as Matty took a breath to yell again, “Either we pay them for the past four hours, minus the door, and let them go on their merry ways. Or, we have a serious talk about employing them.”

“You **cannot** be serious,” Matty repeated.

“No, I am. You’re holding the tips right now!” Danny said, and Jorel and Johnny giggled, “Until tonight we considered seven hundred in tips a good night. Same at the bar. These guys are bringing something great.”

“Or maybe it’s just a sign that business is getting better, and these two being here is just a coincidence.”

“One way to find out. Hire them every other night, and compare the nightly profits.”

“You **cannot** be **serious**!”

“Okay, all in favour of hiring Charlie and – what was your name again?” Jorel said.

Dylan frowned at Jorel, and Jorel grinned and winked.

“I’m Dylan,” Dylan said.

“All in favour of hiring Charlie to sing and Dylan to sell weed; raise your hand,” Jorel said.

Jorel’s hand was already up, and Danny, Charlie and Dylan’s hands all rose in tandem. Charlie and Dylan weren’t even sure they had a vote, but they went for it anyway. Johnny looked them over and rose a hand too.

Matty groaned. “Fine. But when y’all realise you’re wrong, I am one hundred per cent gonna gloat.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else of you,” Danny said.

Johnny showed the pair around, Matty tagging along to add “Not that you’ll need to remember,” at every opportunity. They started in the bathroom opposite the changing room, which boasted a seatless toilet, a cracked sink and mirror, and a shower in the corner. Danny had ushered them out to claim the first wash, and Jorel hung around outside the bathroom to claim the second.

A couple of the doors were locked, and Johnny double checked that they were so. When asked, Johnny called the rooms ‘storage’ and Dylan and Charlie shared a knowing look. That was where the green was stored. Matty rambled something about spare fridges but Charlie and Dylan were already starting to master the art of tuning him out.

There was a small kitchen straight behind the bar with a spray tap on the sink and a dented-up rinsing machine. More glasses and a bong sat over the counters.

“No gas,” Johnny said, “No need for it. There’s a microwave.”

A pizza box sat in the bin. Charlie blinked at it.

“Double pepperoni stuffed crust with extra sausage and beef,” Charlie said.

“What?” Johnny said.

“Double pepperoni stuffed crust with extra sausage and beef,” Charlie repeated, “It smelt fucking good, man.”

Johnny huffed a smile. “It tasted fucking good, too.”

“A man of taste,” Charlie nodded his respect.

Matty rolled his eyes and ushered them on.

All that was left was a cleaning closet. The door hung open and a gap sat in the left. Out in the dance hall, pop music played and they could hear water slopping.

“Ain’t that your job?” Johnny said to Matty.

“It’s our job,” Matty said, “And we’re busy.”

“It didn’t take two of us to give a tour.”

“Clearly it did.”

“Only because you wouldn’t fuck off.”

“You fuck off!”

The radio stopped. The mop bucket rattled on its wheels, and the door opened to Danny once again in his joggers and hoodie, hair darkened and slicked down with water.

“Are you two still squabbling?” Danny said.

“No,” Johnny and Matty chorused.

“Yes,” Charlie and Dylan chorused.

Danny snorted. “You two fitting in okay?”

Dylan and Johnny nodded. Charlie was reminded of the camp counsellors he used to throw spiders at to watch them scream and run, but nodded too. Matty grunted.

Jorel dipped through the door, snuck up on Matty and startled him with an aggressive scrub to the back of the head. Matty’s beanie fell off, and loose black curls fell over his face in a thick mop. Matty snapped something about Jorel being an asshole and combed his hair back down with his fingers.

“I drew up contracts,” Jorel said, “I’m not getting busted by a fucking **union** of all things.”

Charlie snatched the contract and started patting his legs down for a pen. Gold dust, those little bastards are.

Dylan put a calm hand on Charlie’s shoulder and took his own contract. He held it up and stepped under the light to peer at the writing. Both Jorel’s handwriting and spelling needed some intervention.

“Contract for work, Grenade Club.

“[Blank space] to work 21 hours a week at $10 an hour, plus 5% of profits to be given each Tuesday.

“No overtime expected, no sick pay, no paternity pay.

“Any infringements, including lateness, theft and asshole behaviour, to result in immediate termination of the contract.

“Contract to be updated in six weeks.”

Dylan peered at Jorel. “That ain’t minimum wage, homie.”

“The profits tend to make up the difference,” Jorel said, “Plus extra. If you don’t like it, you can go, dude.”

“And who’s actually paying that wage,” Matty cut in, “I ain’t taking a cut.”

“We’re all taking a cut, man,” Johnny said, “They’re making enough profit you won’t even notice.”

“I can’t fucking believe this. I never agreed to that.”

“You agreed to split profits between everyone who worked here,” Jorel said, “Business takes sacrifice. If you don’t like it, you can go.”

“Do you say that to everyone?” Charlie said.

Jorel shrugged. “I’m not gonna force anyone to stay here, but I don’t want people causing problems either. Matty knew what he was signing up for, you know what you’re signing up for. Not much more I can do, the rest is up to you.”

“Up to us making profits and not being assholes. Sounds good to me.”

Dylan nodded in agreement. He stepped towards the hall but Danny stopped him.

“Don’t put paper on these tables,” he said, “It’ll dissolve.”

Dylan snorted. Danny shoved the mop and un-emptied bucked back into cupboard and lead them back to the changing room. He opened the third locker and tossed Dylan a pen.

Jorel pulled his shirt off, and Charlie realised Jorel hadn’t bothered wrestling his jeans back on after his shower. Jorel clambered straight over the two couches to Danny and opened the second locker. His boxers were on backwards in his haste to redress and Charlie looked away with a cough.

“Do we get a locker?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, but they don’t lock,” Danny said.

Charlie and Dylan nodded like they hadn’t already known that. Dylan printed his name in the blank space and signed on a line at the bottom. He checked Charlie’s contract was the same, discovered even more creative new spellings, and gave Charlie a nod to bless his own contract signing.

Matty slumped on the couch, scowling directly at Charlie and Dylan. They tried to ignore him, but it was harder when the scowl was reflected in the mirror next to them.

“Are you always this moody?” Dylan asked.

“Only when there’s assholes about,” Matty said.

“Yeah, he is,” Jorel said. His black jeans, practically the same as the ones he performed in, were half way up his thighs.

“He’ll get over it,” Danny said, “He’s always mad about something.”

“Not my fault I’m surrounded by assholes,” Matty said.

“No, but it’s your fault you’re an asshole about it,” Johnny said.

Matty balked and started ranting something about Johnny causing every problem ever. Johnny rolled his eyes. His braces [US: suspenders] were rolled neatly around his hand, and he placed them in his locker with his bolo tie. Now that Danny had turned the light on, the thinness of Johnny’s shirt became apparent, bright tattoos bleeding through. His hat was now perched on top of the lockers, and Charlie marvelled at having the height to just casually put stuff on top of other stuff without having to throw it and then panic about getting it back again.

“So how much of y’all’s money goes on gym membership?” Charlie said.

“I work out at home,” Danny said.

“This,” Jorel flexed, “Is purely from summoning the strength to get out of bed.”

“Damn,” Charlie said, “Mental health hero.”

“I do **not** get called that very often.” Jorel sniffed a shirt, nodded its sniff-test clearance and pulled it on. It was plain back, with PROTEIN PROFICENT emblazoned in green.

“You asking for exercises?” Johnny said. He was now shirtless, and was possibly the closest to Dylan’s bouncer assumptions he’d ever seen in a real human. The guy was huge.

Charlie and Dylan shook their heads in shock and Johnny snorted.

“I’d go easy on you,” Johnny said, “You don’t get stacked overnight.”

“It’s like a business,” Jorel said, “You gotta work at it to get results.”

Johnny sent Dylan a look. “Told you I know the type.”

“Huh?” Charlie said.

“Don’t worry, homie,” Dylan said, “Just work stuff. Hustling. Grinding.”

“Always,” Charlie and Jorel chorused.

Danny shut his locker and started buttoning his shirt. The shirt was a little tight on his shoulders but he either didn’t notice or was willing to put up with it. “What nights do you two want to work? We could do with you on weekends, if that’s okay.”

“I work Monday, Wednesday and Friday,” Dylan said, “So if I can work those nights I can sleep all day the next day.”

“How about Wednesday, Friday and Saturday? Mondays are pretty dead.”

“Fine by me, Goldie.”

“Is that okay with you, too?” Danny asked Charlie.

“I work night shift delivery for Artful Burgers on a Wednesday,” Charlie said.

Johnny and Matty both scoffed in disgust.

“Yeah, I know,” Charlie said, “It smells weird but its cash in hand and about half the customers tip too. I’m pretty sure the place is a front; some weeks they just give me a handful of cash and tell me to come back next week, and there’s some guys in suits stood in the kitchen.”

“Doesn’t Jeff work there?” Matty said.

“Philips? Yeah, he flips the burgers. They kick him out too; he gives me a lift home when it happens.”

Jorel, Johnny and Matty winced.

“He’s fuckin’ crazy,” Matty said, and he didn’t notice Danny and Jorel snorting with laughter.

“Oh my God, he’s insane,” Charlie said.

Matty was smirking. He finally straightened up from his moody-teen slouch. “Okay, so what about music on a Monday?”

“What?” Jorel said.

“Mondays are pretty dead, what if we just had singing on a Monday, keep it chilled out. We push the beers and the mellow strains, cut the glitter and the bullshit, just have singing and guitar. You play guitar?”

Charlie took a second to realise Matty was talking to him. “Yeah, I play guitar.”

“You look the type. Johnny plays bass, Danny plays guitar, Jorel plays fucking all of it, we could just pull a show together. No point dancing if it’s dead. Do you play?”

“I can play Chopsticks,” Dylan said, “And I do a mean Hot Cross Buns on the recorder.”

“And the kazoo,” Charlie added.

“Oh, yeah, my kazoo Final Countdown is,” Dylan kissed his fingers, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

Matty laughed.

“Let’s keep you behind the bar for now,” Danny said, “Don’t wanna crowd the stage.”

Danny was now knelt up on the other couch and leant over the back, hands folded together. Johnny was pulling his hoodie on, which hid his muscle but did nothing to make him look any smaller. If anything, he looked broader. He pulled a bald cap out of his hood and set about tying it to his head.

Jorel reached into the fourth locker and pulled the alien backpack out. He climbed onto the couch and dumped the backpack on Matty’s head, letting it roll down Matty’s back with a rattle.

“Fuck you,” Matty said.

“You’d like that,” Jorel said.

Matty tutted, righted his water bottle before it leaked, and dug in the pocket of his trousers for a small key. He fiddled with the French flag on the zipper, which Dylan realised is in fact a novelty padlock.

“You lock up your bag?” Dylan said.

“Don’t trust these assholes,” Matty said.

“They could just move your whole backpack. Hide it, put it in the trash-”

“Put it in the rinser,” Charlie added.

“I like this guy,” Jorel said.

“You touch my backpack, and I will break your fucking hand,” Matty said.

No one back chatted that. Jorel pulled a mocking face but left Matty alone to loosen and pull off his vest. He organised the vest down the back of the backpack. Without it, his own bulk became apparent; a square torso and thick arms and legs.

“Hey, dude,” Dylan said, and nodded to the backpack, “You into aliens and shit?”

Matty peered at Dylan. “Yeah.”

“Did you know the guy who discovered Uranus actually wanted to call it George?”

Matty blinked. He looked at Dylan, then Johnny, then back to Dylan again. A deep smile had crept into his face. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Fuck you!” Johnny snapped, and threw a couch cushion at Matty.

Matty laughed and threw it back.

Charlie and Dylan walked side-by-side. Jorel, Johnny and Danny had headed off, Jorel claiming to have a car nearby to give the other two a lift home. They wished Charlie and Dylan good luck, which they realised they needed as Matty tagged along with them, rambling about the atmosphere on Neptune. All Charlie picked up was a possibility of alien mermaids, which he of course pictured as having titties. Matty had left them a couple of blocks ago, and the early Inglewood morning now felt quiet without him.

“Hey, Dylan?” Charlie said. He was staring at his battered sneakers as he walked. One corner was peeling up like a little squared bulge. “I think I might be a little bisexual.”

“Aw, man, that sounds great! Righty gets tired and you just,” Dylan worked his right hand back and forth and then switched to his left, “You just keep on going! That’s the dream!”

“No! I mean, I think I like men a little bit!”

Dylan nodded. “It was that blonde, wasn’t it.”

Charlie nodded. There’d been a little bit of attraction to all three of the performers, but Danny had lead to the biggest ‘holy shit **men** ’ feeling. It was the shorts.

“I think we’re all a little ambidexterous for that Danny,” Dylan said, “So don’t go filing for divorce just yet, yeah?”

Charlie laughed, and the disaster homies ambled on home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I needed something fun. This fic is based on a music video I made up to Gangsta Sexy, in which Charlie and Dylan break into a strip club as above, which becomes a sing-off with Charlie on the verses, Danny on the chorus, and Dylan having to step in to save Charlie. But of course I got a little too invested in the worldbuilding.
> 
> Notes in order of appearance  
> Aztec is a made-up company, I don't know if it exists.  
> I don't know if you can break into a fire door as described, I made it up. Please don't try to break into places, that's illegal.  
> The cross and bird graffiti is the D+G logo.  
> The club smelling of "Marijuana, pussy and rock n' roll" is a reference to the skit J-Dog's biggest fan.  
> I'm hoping I described Dylan's outfit as lesbian enough. I'm working on describing clothes better so lesbians! Let me know!  
> I added the [US: suspenders] because we reach the British writer's dilemma; whether to use the British word or the American word. If I'd described Johnny as wearing "navy blue pants and suspenders", British readers would read it as far more lewd than American readers.  
> Aron would have been part of the club at first, but jealousy towards Jorel, Danny and Johnny getting more attention would have lead to a fight and to Aron leaving.  
> The panel graffitied with DEAD BITE WOZ HERE opens, and a second boltable panel is inside. The weed and the money are passed through these panels.  
> Foodie Friends catering is also made up. Ordering tends to be devolved to the most patient person in the kitchen, which tends to be the nanas, who tend to enjoy chattering away to a nice young man on the phone.  
> Johnny smells like bubblegum because of a flavoured vape.  
> Most of the equipment and furniture is thrifted or fly-tipped.  
> A Frozen Pink Panty is a cocktail of gin, lemonade, strawberries, vanilla ice cream and more ice blended together.  
> An Ace is a cocktail of dry gin, grenadine, single cream [US: half-and-half] and egg white shaken together with ice and strained.  
> A Cosmopolitan is a cocktail of vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice and lime juice.  
> A Kalimotxo is a cocktail of red wine and cola.  
> The first woman Dylan serves is a lesbian, in case that's not obvious. She's with her coworker for a hen do and the weed bar sounded like it would make gyrating men tolerable.  
> Charlie gave Johnny extra sausage. Yes.  
> "Pens are gold dust" is a joke on my own workplace. And some of my past workplaces. There's never a pen when you need one.  
> 21 hours a week comes to 3 7-hour shifts, 10pm to 5am.  
> The contract above is not a good example of a work contract. Please don't ever sign something with vague wording like "Asshole behaviour". "No sick pay" is also fucked, but I understand unions don't have much of a foothold in the US. Basically, when you're reading a contract, try to think about how it could be used to fuck you over, and if it's too likely to fuck you over it's not worth signing.  
> California minimum wage is $14/hour, to rise to $15/hour in 2022. If you are a small business owner you can pay a dollar less, not $10. If you get enough bonuses on a regular enough basis that you still make at least minimum wage then a lower hourly pay is legal.  
> PROTEIN PROFICIENT is a joke on people assuming that vegans are protein deficient. I don't know if this shirt exists, but I wouldn't be surprised if it does.  
> Danny's shirt is a little tight because it's actually a woman's shirt. He just likes it. The main difference between men and women's clothing is women's clothes tend to be slimmer fitted. I've worn men's jeans and shirts for almost twelve years and no one has ever been like "HEY THAT'S FOR MEN" even when I've bumped into a man in the same shirt.  
> Artful Burgers is also made up. Yes, it's a front for the mob, and they kick out any workers not in the mob. Having non-mob workers means that the legal side will continue even with mob workers ending up in prison or hiding, and makes the legal side look more 'legit'.  
> There have been theories that, if Neptune's ice is an atmosphere, Neptune could be home to aliens.
> 
> After the six weeks, I like to think Charlie becomes a regular singer and Dylan mans the weed bar and sometimes announces songs, deals and theme nights.  
> Eventually, Charlie is able to drop a couple of his shitty jobs to pick up more hours at the club. The catering company gets computerised and Dylan picks up more hours after being made redundant.  
> The Music Mondays take a while and some changes to take off, and becomes more of an acoustic night. As profits rise, because it wasn't a coincidence _Matty_ ,they're able to fix up the hall and have more lights on.
> 
> Told you I'd overthought the worldbuilding.


End file.
